


Serpentine Summer

by Lomonaaeren



Series: From Samhain to the Solstice [20]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Established Relationship, Horcruxes, Legilimency, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-02 23:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16796548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: It’s summer, and Harry is with Blaise and his mother in Florence, discovering many things—among them, duplicity and what it’s like to be in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my “From Samhain to the Solstice” fics, and also the sequel to my Harry/Blaise fic, "Vellum Voices,” that I posted in July, as requested by many people. Make sure that you read “Vellum Voices” first to understand the series. It will have four parts.

****“This is going to be easy.”

Harry keeps silent, not that that’s difficult when any words he speaks would only come out in Parseltongue anyway. But he doesn’t agree. He can see at least three members of the Order of the Phoenix in King’s Cross Station, and that’s just by turning his head.

Blaise seems to feel his tension in the set of his shoulders. He kisses Harry on the temple and murmurs, “Leave this to me and my mother.”

Harry holds up the note that he wrote earlier on the train, and which Blaise didn’t deign to answer at the time. _How do you get to Italy? By Floo_?

Blaise shakes his head, his eyes on the crowd of witches and wizards surging back and forth in front of them. “By Portkey. And there’s—yes, there’s Mother now.” His voice descends into a surge of pride and relief.

Harry follows his gaze, and sees a tall woman in layered robes making her way through the station towards them. She has skin perhaps a shade or two darker than Blaise’s, and maybe hair like his as well, but she wears a gauzy golden headscarf over it, so Harry can’t see for sure. When she comes to stand in front of them, she bends down a little, and Harry can see enormous eyes considering him. He thinks maybe they’re indigo, but it’s hard to tell in the shadow of the train.

“Mother,” Blaise says. He reaches out, and she tilts her head to kiss him on the cheek. Blaise steps back and holds out his hand as if he’s inviting someone to dance. “Harry, this my mother, Hafsa Zabini. Mother, this is Harry Potter.”

Harry writes _Hello_ on his parchment and holds it out. Even though Blaise has told him more than once that his mother values Parseltongue, Harry still isn’t sure how she’ll react once she hears it.

Mrs. Zabini reaches out and clasps his hand. “Hello, Harry.” Her English is soft and seems to have more than one accent. “Blaise has written many letters to me about you. I am delighted to get to know you, and to know that you put my gift to Blaise to good use.”

Harry flushes, knowing she’s referring to the poison that killed Umbridge. He looks around, but no one is standing close enough to overhear their conversation. Blaise rolls his eyes at him and nudges Harry pointedly with his elbow. He thinks Harry worries too much about that, he’s told him in the past.

“I am also glad that you are coming to stay with us. Perhaps I can help you with your curse.”

Harry smiles and nods. Even though part of him is grateful for the curse, because he doubts he would have got to know Blaise without it, it would be a bloody relief to speak English again.

“Now, come.” Mrs. Zabini spends a moment shrinking their luggage into a tiny bundle that she tucks away somewhere in her layered robes. Then she extends one hand to Harry and one to Blaise. Harry takes her hand carefully. He can’t ever remember a woman who was virtually a stranger to him wanting to touch him. Even Aunt Petunia doesn’t.

“Harry? Where are you going?”

That’s Ron. Mrs. Zabini turns around and looks down her nose for a moment. Ron jerks to a stop, flushing himself. “I am going to take my son and Mr. Potter to Diagon Alley for a meal. What have you to say to that—introduce me, Blaise, please.”

“This is Ron Weasley, Mother.”

 _He’s one of my friends,_ Harry wants to say, but Blaise squeezes his hand, and Harry decides that even writing it down might not be wise right now. From the way that Mrs. Zabini is holding herself, she can deal with Ron, and whether he might be spying for the Order of the Phoenix or not. Harry just sits there and watches and waits, and Ron clears his throat.

“I just wanted to say that Harry is supposed to go back to his relatives’ house. That’s what Professor Dumbledore told us.”

“And I say that he shall come with my son and I for a good meal before he goes back to a Muggle nightmare.”

Ron hesitates, but Harry only smiles at him and, of course, says nothing; Ron hasn’t learned British Sign Language like Hermione, anyway, so they could only communicate if Harry wrote something down. Ron finally scratches the back of his neck and mutters, “I don’t know what Professor Dumbledore will have to say to that.”

“He may say many things,” Mrs. Zabini says, and sweeps them away.

They do go to Diagon Alley and up a little side-alley that Harry has never been in before. Mrs. Zabini draws a small four-sided crystal from her sleeve and turns to Harry. “I can feel them coming after us. Do your friends always follow you so persistently, Mr. Potter?”

“Some of them,” Blaise says, while Harry nods. “I think they’re spying on him for Dumbledore, to tell you the truth.”

Mrs. Zabini closes her eyes and sighs. “Well, we will _not_ permit them to get in our way. Take the crystal if you please, boys.”

Harry reaches out and lays his hand on it. Although it’s big enough for Blaise to grip it, too, he puts his hand over Harry’s instead. Harry studies him in wonder. Blaise smiles and starts to say something, but then the Portkey catches them up and sweeps them away.

Harry does think he hears a voice cry out in dismay behind them, but he ignores it. He’s going to spend the summer with people who want him around for once.

*

“Do you trust me enough to have me look into your mind?”

Harry locks his muscles before he can leap seven feet into the air. He’s been in the Zabini villa for almost a week now, but it still makes him jump when Mrs. Zabini sneaks up on him. He turns around from looking out through a stone window into the gardens and finds her standing behind him.

He was right when he thought he saw the color of her eyes in the train station. They are indigo, and Mrs. Zabini knows how to dress well and in robes that complement their color. She’s been teaching Harry about fashion. For the first time in his life, Harry thinks it’s interesting, and they have good, if mostly one-sided, conversations over the villa’s breakfast table.

But her eyes can also be too intense to meet. Harry finds his flitting aside, back to the trailing vines and shining flowers of the gardens.

“I do require an answer, please,” Mrs. Zabini says, and for a moment she reminds him of McGonagall. Then she adds, “But you can wait longer if you want. I would never wish to injure the mind of a boy my son is so fond of.”

Harry relaxes a little. Mrs. Zabini and Blaise also never try to hurry him, and after years of being yelled at by what felt like everybody, this is more than nice. He takes a scrap of parchment out of his pocket and writes, _All right. Can we go outside while we do it?_

“I was about to suggest that, actually. A table in the gardens and chocolate.” Mrs. Zabini extends her arm. Harry takes it awkwardly. He thought at first that he was supposed to support her or something, but half the time, she acts like _she_ wants to support _him_. It’s weird.

They get out into the garden, and Mrs. Zabini indicates that Harry should sit at the little table they have there. Harry can’t actually tell what it’s made of, but it glows white and it’s made of intricate curls, and the benches are blue and comfortable. He sits down, and Mrs. Zabini sits across from him.

“Meet my eyes, and do not be afraid.”

Harry swallows and does it. If he can put up with Snape tearing his mind to pieces, then he can put up with a gentler touch.

Her hand skims the top of his at the same moment as her Legilimency skims the top of his thoughts, and he feels her anger like a hissing cat, rather than a snake. Harry blinks and tries to let down any shields he had raised. He doesn’t think he has any. Snape kept ranting at him about not having any, at least.

“I am not angry at you. I am angry at _that man_ who calls himself a professor.”

Harry relaxes, and Mrs. Zabini gently travels through his mind, cool and bright. Sometimes he thinks he can catch the edge of a memory, but she always soothes it into softness again before he can hurt. She slips deeper and deeper, and then Harry hears a curse that seems to echo in his mind more than his ears.

Mrs. Zabini rises like someone surfacing from water, although it feels strange when the water is in your head. She reaches across the table and gently lays her hand over Harry’s again.

“I think this is a discussion we should have Blaise here for,” she says quietly. “Will you let me call him?”

Harry blinks and then nods. If he could speak in English, he would ask why she wanted to ask his permission. Blaise has been there from the beginning, and there’s nothing Harry knows about the Parseltongue curse that Blaise doesn’t also know.

But if he could speak English, then he wouldn’t be in this predicament at all.

Mrs. Zabini draws her wand and casts a spell that makes a chiming tone ring through the garden. Harry doesn’t see how _that_ is going to alert Blaise, but he comes running out in seconds through an arched doorway that leads into a walled colonnade, his face breathless. “Harry? Mother?”

“Sit down, Blaise. I want you here for this.”

Blaise sits down next to Harry, even though he has a choice of three other benches, and leans in until Harry can feel his warmth against his side. Harry breathes out slowly. He didn’t realize how tense he was sitting here alone with Blaise’s mother until just now.

“The Parseltongue curse is indeed bound into your mind,” Mrs. Zabini begins carefully. “I had thought that perhaps the Dark Lord buried something else there, a secondary spell to anchor the curse. It would make sense for the curse to be so long-lasting then.”

She looks at Harry, and her eyes are wide. Harry can see how shimmering a color they are now better than ever. “It turns out that he did not have to. You have a connection to him already, Harry. He tied the curse to that. Do you—do you already suspect what the connection is?”

“ _My scar_?” Harry hisses. Neither Blaise nor his mother jump at the Parseltongue, but Harry feels stupid for forgetting. He reaches up and lets his fingers trace the edge of the scar.

“Not only a physical mark. I am so sorry, Harry.” Mrs. Zabini draws her breath in as if she’s going to float up into the air. “He made you into a Horcrux.”

Blaise suddenly starts leaning on him almost hard enough to knock him over, and says loudly, “ _What_?”

“ _I don’t know what that is,_ ” Harry says, in stupid Parseltongue again. He looks around for parchment to write down his confusion, but Mrs. Zabini seems to guess it from the expression on his face.

“I see that education in Hogwarts does not have the edge it needs to.”

“Mother! I found plenty of books that told me what I needed to know.” Blaise’s voice is softer now, but the death grip he has on Harry’s shoulder isn’t reassuring.

“You are in Slytherin and knew many such things before you went to Hogwarts, and how to look for them if you found you needed something you did not know.” Mrs. Zabini shakes her head, pushes her scarf lightly back into place, and leans across the table to study Harry. “You have not had such an education in Gryffindor, have you, Harry?”

Blaise has parchment sticking out of his robe pocket. Harry grabs it and the quill that’s with it, and casts the enchantment he’s got good at casting wordlessly, the one that fills the quill nib with ink. _Will someone please tell me what a Horcrux is?_ he scribbles down.

“Yes. All right. It is an object in which someone stores a piece of his soul—a Dark wizard willing to pay prices that most of us are not. It will keep him immortal, and prevent his soul from fleeing. But that does not mean it is harmless.” Mrs. Zabini’s eyes are huge and tired in her calm face. “I have never heard of a living being made into a Horcrux. Usually, they are objects that can be stored somewhere and kept safe. Do you have _any_ idea of how this could have happened, Harry?”

Harry closes his eyes. His world feels like it’s imploding. All he can see is a diary bleeding black across the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, and a shade of Tom Riddle screaming at him in fury, and a basilisk fang that went into his arm and almost killed him, would have killed him if not for Fawkes.

For the first time in his life, Harry feels that maybe it would have been better if he had died there in the Chamber.

“He’s in shock, Mother,” Blaise says anxiously from a great distance away, and Harry feels a Warming Charm cast on him. He’s shivering. Why is he shivering? He’s just thinking that it would have been better if he’d died in the Chamber, that he’s like the diary, that he’s horrible and evil and going to possess people—

He leans over to the side and vomits.

“We are going to take care of you,” says someone, but the voice is so distorted by the roaring in Harry’s ears that he can’t tell if it’s Blaise or his mother. The firm hand on his shoulder is all Blaise, though, and so is the one that holds a cup full of something to his lips. Harry swallows obediently. Why not? All this is going to end soon anyway. He’ll have to find a basilisk fang or something. How can he—

The room snaps back into focus. Harry gasps, aware of the fiery tingle in his throat. He swallows and looks around blankly at the garden. The flowers seem to swim in brighter colors than they should for a moment, and then calm down. Harry is leaning against Blaise, swathed in a heavy cloak.

“You did not know. Either what a Horcrux is or that you are one.”

Harry shuts his eyes and shakes his head. The revelation is still overwhelming, but he can deal with it better now. He waits until his hand won’t tremble, then writes down, _I destroyed a diary in second year that now I know was a Horcrux. How are we going to destroy me?_

Blaise hisses as if he’s the one with the Parseltongue curse, and even though his mother is trying to say something, he is the one who lifts Harry’s head and stares into his eyes. “No,” he whispers. “I will _never_ allow something like that to happen. No, Harry.”

 _I’m evil,_ Harry writes helplessly. He’s starting to shiver again.

“Not you. Never you. And if the Horcrux has any influence on you, then I’ve never seen it.” Blaise’s hands roam up and down his back, tracing the line of Harry’s backbone beneath the cloak. “Do you even _understand_ how special you are to me? How I would fight for you?”

“And I would do anything for the boy who makes my son so happy,” Mrs. Zabini adds softly. “No. We will not be destroying you, Harry. We will remove the Horcrux, and you will go back to living the life you should have.”

 _Does Dumbledore know?_ is the next question Harry writes, the one that comes to him first for some reason.

Mrs. Zabini leans towards him. “I cannot answer that for certain, but I can tell you one thing.”

Harry nods. Then he shivers. Blaise impatiently nudges a dark stone cup that Harry didn’t notice before towards him. It has rubies along the side and smells strong enough that Harry hesitates to drink it, but Blaise only looks at him, and Harry smiles shakily and sips. He has no doubt that Blaise would just throw it down his throat like he did before if Harry refused.

The liquid relaxes him. If it’s a potion, it’s the best-tasting one that Harry has ever had.

“There is no way that a wizard and Legilimens as powerful as Dumbledore could have looked into your head and missed the anchor for the Parseltongue curse.”

Harry closes his eyes. So if Dumbledore didn’t know before, then he would have known the minute he first looked into Harry’s mind after Voldemort cast the curse on him.

“We can destroy the anchor of the curse. That will involve removing the Horcrux. It’s possible that I wouldn’t know how to do that, since the Horcrux has rooted itself in your soul and magic, but that curse outlines the shape of it. I can separate it from you.”

 _But what?_ Harry mouths. Blaise tightens his arm around his shoulders.

“It will hurt,” Mrs. Zabini says. “It will take longer than I originally thought. You will need to trust me more than you do now. It will take some potions and perhaps two months. But you have that time to spend with us, don’t you?”

Harry looks warily at her face, but she doesn’t seem to be mocking him. And she doesn’t seem to think that he’s an abomination who should be killed.

He nods. At least it’s a decision he’s making of his own free will. And he doesn’t trust Mrs. Zabini enough to remove the Horcrux or the curse yet, but he trusts her more than a lot of people.

Blaise leans more strongly against him, a silent presence. Willing to touch Harry like this, even when he knows that he’s a Horcrux.

Harry turns and sighs against Blaise’s neck. There’s one person he trusts more than any other. Unfortunately, he’s not a powerful Legilimens. But at least he’s here.

*

“I expected you to have more of a reaction.”

Harry blinks at Blaise. He’s standing in the door of the bedroom he and his mum gave Harry, which is better than any other room Harry has had in his _life_. It’s big and open and airy and has a desk and bookshelves and a table and a huge bed that Harry enjoys sleeping in. There’s space for Hedwig’s perch and all his schoolbooks and his robes with lots left over.

In the dreams that he lets himself entertain each night just before he drifts off to sleep, Harry dreams about living here.

 _To what?_ Harry writes down, and holds up the parchment to Blaise. It’s the back of one of the multiple essay draft attempts that he has to make with Snape’s holiday homework assignment.

“To learning you were a Horcrux. I mean, I understand that you wanted to fall apart for a minute there. But I didn’t think even that potion would restore you as fast as it did.” Blaise sits down on the bed next to him, staring at him without blinking.

_What’s in the potion?_

“One of Mother’s variants of Pepper-Up. Don’t change the subject, please, Harry. You weren’t as surprised as I thought you would be. Why?”

Harry stares at his hands in silence, then sighs and rallies himself. _Okay,_ he writes. _You won’t like this, but it’s the truth._

“That’s all I want, Harry.” Blaise takes his left hand.

_I think I never really expected to make it to adulthood. I almost died in first year, and second year, and third year, and fourth year. I didn’t almost die last year, but only because you were there. And before that I grew up with relatives who hated me and didn’t care if I lived or not. So it’s not really a shock to know that I might have to die to get rid of the Horcrux._

Blaise makes a fierce sound and grabs onto him, holding him until Harry has no choice but to slump sideways and rest his head on Blaise’s shoulder. “I am going to make sure that never happens,” Blaise whispers to him. “I know that you might be resigned to this, but I’m _not_. I’m not going to let you die just when I found you.”

Harry leans more heavily on him, and waits until Blaise releases him to write, _It sounds like I can survive it, because your mother’s here and you’re here._

“Would you have given up without us, Harry?”

Harry hesitates.

“ _Answer_ me, Harry.”

 _I wouldn’t have given up,_ Harry writes slowly. It’s so hard to say the right thing, because he doesn’t know if the right thing is the truth or what would make Blaise comfortable. _I would have fought for my life as hard as I could. But if Dumbledore or someone told me I had to die to save the world? I wouldn’t really have been_ surprised. He underlines the last word as hard as he can. _Upset, but not surprised._

“No one’s ever taught you the value of your life,” Blaise whispers, his voice thick and grieved. “Everyone tells you that you’re the special one, the one who survived, but no one encouraged you to do more than that. To _live._ You’re special to me for more than you surviving the Killing Curse, Harry. I’m not going to let you go.”

He kisses Harry then, something he’s only done lightly since they came to Italy. This strong one makes Harry’s hands flail for a second, trying to find something to rest on, before they settle on Blaise’s shoulders. Harry pulls Blaise to him and kisses back. He wants to hold onto him, to keep him here, to beg Blaise never to leave him alone—

_Well, I think I can count on that last one._

Then Blaise’s tongue settles onto his, and Harry shudders and gives up on everything except the warmth invading his mouth. Blaise leans him back on the pillow and kisses him into gasps before he’s satisfied. He pulls back enough then to give Harry a heavy glance, possessive like a hawk’s talons. “You’re mine. I love you.”

Harry’s eyes sting for a second, because he can’t tell Blaise the same thing in English. He forces it back and writes on the parchment, _I love you too._

Blaise smiles like he’s just won the best prize in the world, and he bends over to kiss Harry again.


	2. Chapter 2

“And you found out why he seemed so ready to yield his life?”

Blaise tightens his hand on the edge of the table. He expected the question from Mother, honestly. He wasn’t the only one who noticed the way Harry recovered from shock so easily and even from the suggestion that he might have to die to remove the Horcrux.

“Yes,” he says, and looks up. Mother sits across from him, her own teacup balanced on the edge of her hand and her gaze calm. That helps to relax Blaise, too. “He never expected to make it to adulthood. He thought one of the threats along the way would destroy him.”

“And therefore the Horcrux only seemed like another threat. How many times has he nearly died, Blaise?”

“Counting the time when he was a baby, at least five.”

Mother stands up and walks out to stare out the French doors into the garden. Blaise watches her. He loves her, but theirs is a complex relationship, because her magic and her wisdom together mean that she protects him constantly and Blaise can’t give any of that protection back. But then he found Harry, and he found someone who needed that kind of love from him. It’s wonderful, even if Blaise longs for the day that Harry can speak English again and he won’t need to protect him as much.

“Why did you choose someone in so much danger, Blaise?” Mother asks without turning around.

Blaise has been prepared for this question. “Because his ability to speak being removed made me see the real Harry Potter.”

Mother glances at him over her shoulder. “Few people would say that. Most people would assume that the soul of a person is expressed through their words.”

“Yes, but in Hogwarts, some of those words are ‘Gryffindor’ and ‘Slytherin’ with all the baggage attached. Mother…he was so alone. His friends stood by him, of course, but they couldn’t communicate with him except in writing, either. Almost everyone else withdrew from him, either because of the Parseltongue or because they believed those lies about Voldemort not being back. And even I hesitated for a long time, because I couldn’t believe that no one else saw what I saw. I kept thinking that someone else would move in and claim him.”

“Like a possession, Blaise?”

Blaise smiles a little. Mother will fence with him and demand that he test and prove his love. It’s not only because she wants to make sure that Harry is his permanent choice, and a worthy one. It’s also because she doesn’t want Blaise to make some of her own mistakes.

“An ally, I thought at the time. A source of strength. Do you have any idea how strong he is, Mother?”

“I am beginning to understand, since my journey into his mind yesterday. He bears the pain of malicious Legilimency without crying out.” For a moment, Mother’s fingers twitch. “The man who _taught_ him before this had no care at all.”

Blaise nods. He has other scores to settle, but the one with Snape isn’t the smallest one. “Harry lasted through not being able to _speak_ to anyone, through almost everyone being afraid of him, through those Legilimency lessons—even though I didn’t know about them—and through being tortured by Professor Umbridge. I wanted to be close to that strength, Mother. Just an ally, I thought at first.”

“And then—”

“When I saw how much greater his strength was than I thought, and that he wasn’t going to push me away—he needs my protection right now, but he won’t always.”

“Yes,” Mother says after a moment. “I can see now why you became enamored of him.”

Blaise isn’t offended. Mother will probably refer to it as being enamored until he or Harry makes some grand gesture to prove their love. And Blaise can live with that. He would much rather Mother look out for him and be overprotective than not protective at all.

He would much rather have extra confirmation that Harry is his. Harry’s said it, Blaise has felt it, but he’s greedy. He wants even more.

*

“This first session is going to be painful. I will pull the Horcrux closer to the surface of your mind for examination.”

Harry nods and stares at the table that he and Mrs. Zabini are sitting at in the garden. Blaise clutches his hand from the left. Harry manages to smile at him, but God, it’s an effort. He’s almost got used to _not_ being in pain, other than the constant annoyance that he can’t speak English. He doesn’t want to go back to it.

“I have potions that will soothe the pain,” Mrs. Zabini continues, and gestures at a row of vials sitting next to her. “You need not fear.”

At least that’s more than he would ever get from the Dursleys or Snape. Harry meets Mrs. Zabini’s eyes and holds as still as he can while she slips into his mind and glides through it.

He gasps when she pulls back. For a moment, he wonders if she hasn’t found what she’s looking for. There’s a faint red mist hovering between them, but none of the pain that she told him—

Then agony slams him into the table. Harry grits his teeth and doesn’t voice it. He’s stronger than that. And he clutches Blaise’s hand, but concentrates on not breaking it. That gives him something to think about other than the driving anguish that’s making his ears pop and the bones in his hands shiver.

Someone says something. The words seem to float outside his awareness and drift into the air. Harry tries to lift his head. There’s no way. There’s no warmth. Why is he on cold stone? Why does he seem to have skin instead of scales? He should be away from here, he should be at the side of the one who made him—

“Harry!”

Okay, that he understood. Harry opens his mouth to gasp, and someone pours a potion into it. Harry gulps it greedily, and then leans to the side. Blaise’s shoulder is there to support his head, and his arm there to hold Harry upright. Harry shudders and tries to ignore the memory of what it was like to be a snake loyal to Voldemort.

“You’re all right,” Blaise says, in what’s almost a demand, and he traces the line of Harry’s scar for a second.

Harry nods. “ _I’m all right_ ,” he hisses in Parseltongue before he remembers. But he writes it down on the parchment they have waiting for him.

“That was an unexpected result.” Mrs. Zabini watches him with a faint frown, reaching up to adjust her head scarf. It’s moved a little, and she has lines of sweat on her face, but that’s the only sign Harry can see that she had trouble when she went to help him. “Hmmm. I am very much afraid that this will take longer than I thought, Harry.”

Harry swallows. He thinks he knows what that means, but he’s not going to say it. He can’t, anyway.

He reckoned without Blaise, who’s more perceptive than Harry gave him credit for. He catches Harry’s hand in his and leans over. “What is it?” he asks, quietly, intently. “I want to know what you would have said if you could speak English, Harry.”

Harry shakes his head. Across the table, Mrs. Zabini is watching him with concern, but Harry is familiar with concern. It’s the thing that Professor McGonagall showed him before telling him that she couldn’t stop people from bullying him because he spoke Parseltongue all the time. It’s the kind of concern that his primary school teachers showed him before they said that they couldn’t do anything about the Dursleys. _Nothing_ , he writes brightly.

“Harry.”

What _isn’t_ familiar is the way Blaise leans against him, his hand around Harry’s wrist, his eyes steady and holding their own brand of concern. Shutting his eyes and breathing a little won’t make this go away. And the more Harry swallows, the closer he just comes to fucking _tears_.

“Harry?”

And now Mrs. Zabini is in on the act, and it really sounds as though this might be a different kind of concern than he’s familiar with. Harry swallows hope and writes, _I know that you’re going to say you can’t do it. That it would take too long and you want to do other things. So—that’s all right. You’ve already given me more than anyone else has._

Blaise twists his head to read the writing, since Harry turned it around to face Mrs. Zabini right after he wrote it, and then faces Harry. His expression has gone blank and cool. “Is that what you think?”

“After the way that he has been treated all his life? Is it a marvel that he should think it, Blaise?” Mrs. Zabini sighs a little, and reaches up to cast a Cooling Charm on her face that dries the sweat. “In a way, it might even be comforting to return to what he knows.”

“Well, he’s _not going to_.”

Harry stares at Blaise, because that dark weight in his voice isn’t familiar, either. Then he stares at his hands.

“Do you _want_ us to go away and leave you alone?” Blaise continues, insistent. His fingers are wrapping Harry’s wrist, completely surrounding the bone. Harry can barely see it when he looks at Blaise’s hand. “Is that what you want?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Then don’t expect it,” Blaise says. “My mother’s right that it’ll probably take a long time to unhook the curse from the Horcrux and get you speaking English again. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to _give up_.”

Blaise says the last few words like it’s a curse. Harry breathes out slowly. Then he writes, _I’m sorry_.

Mrs. Zabini replies this time. “You’re sorry for doubting us?”

Harry nods.

“But you still don’t fully trust us? You won’t believe that we’ll stay with you until it happens.”

Harry grimaces. He can get away with lying to people most of the time, or just keeping silence. That’s been easier than ever, this past year. Why can’t he do it now? It’s like only being able to speak Parseltongue makes him _easier_ to understand for Blaise and his mother, which makes absolutely zero sense.

“I know that only proof will make the difference,” Mrs. Zabini says calmly. “So. We’ll keep on. And we’ll investigate exactly how deeply the Horcrux is intertwined with your soul. I think that’s the problem. I don’t know of any other cases of living Horcruxes right now, and of course with ordinary ones it doesn’t matter how long the shard of soul has been in there, because there’s no other soul to interact with. But we are going to solve this.”

“I’ve never known my mother to lie, even by accident,” Blaise said. “What she promises, she keeps. We’re going to solve this, Harry.”

And Harry lets himself believe enough to hold onto Blaise’s hand.

*

When they aren’t working on the Horcrux, they’re exploring Florence.

Harry appreciates that Blaise and his mother don’t take him to the big wizarding section, where there are people who might recognize him no matter how unexpected it would be to see Harry Potter in Italy. Instead, they explore sections of Muggle shops, including a place where Harry tastes gelato for the first time in his life, and they sit on benches and watch flights of doves cross the sky. Harry listens to the Italian around him, and even though he doesn’t understand much, he’s already more relaxed than he would be in Britain.

Maybe it’s just because he knows that he couldn’t join in the speaking here anyway, whereas at home he always felt shut out from others speaking English, but Harry doesn’t mind. He’ll take it.

There is one small wizarding community an Apparition away from Florence—Mrs. Zabini says it’s near Venice—that they do go to, because Mrs. Zabini is flatly insistent about Harry needing new robes. Harry is overwhelmed when they step into the first shop and he sees an explosion of colors. He actually thinks for a second that they’re in a flower shop instead.

“ _I don’t need this much_!” he hisses at Blaise, forgetting again, but Blaise only laughs without needing to know the exact words and grabs his hands to drag him further back towards shelves with more robes folded on them, between rows of hanging ones. Harry touches a silken one and snatches his hand back. It really is like touching the petals of a giant orchid.

“You have the right to touch whatever you want,” Mrs. Zabini says, coming up behind him. “This is your heritage.”

Harry says nothing, because of course he can’t, but he’s thinking that his kind of heritage probably never included robes like this. His father’s robes in the photographs he’s seen are nice enough, but nothing like _this_.

Blaise studies him for a second, then glances at his mother and asks, “Do you not want to spend the money, Harry, or are you just not used to this?”

Harry nods twice. “Both, then,” Blaise says. “Listen, Harry. My mother is paying for everything today, the same way that she Apparated us here. In _normal_ wizarding households, parents take care of you until you reach the age of seventeen. I understand why your parents couldn’t.” His voice softens, and he turns Harry around. “Do you really want to have a fight about this?”

Harry shakes his head, staring at his feet.

“Do you really not want the robes? Do you not like them?”

“ _No_ ,” Harry hisses. He thought they would probably walk into a shop full of robes like the stupid dress ones that he had to wear to the Yule Ball, but these robes have a lot more colors and cuts and styles, and they look cooler and lighter, too.

Blaise has learned to recognize that particular Parseltongue word. “Then let my mother pay for them.”

Harry looks miserably at Mrs. Zabini. She only smiles at him and winds her headscarf a little tighter around her hair.

“It would be my pleasure, Harry. I’ve only had one child to spoil for so many years, and Blaise is hard to spoil. Let me buy your robes.”

Harry slowly nods. In a way, it feels good, like someone is finally willing to look out for him, and he actually _wants_ to let Mrs. Zabini do that.

But it also feels as though a rat like Wormtail is running up and down his shoulders. He ponders that while Mrs. Zabini and Blaise pick out a bunch of different robes, almost all of them blue and green, and press them into his arms. The room to change in is a huge, softly lit one with hovering clouds of mist instead of partitions, but no one can look through the mist and see Harry. There are also huge mirrors along one wall.

It’s because he is still used to the Dursleys, Harry decides after a few minutes of struggling into one of the blue robes and then staring doubtfully at himself in the mirror. He honestly doesn’t know whether he looks good or not.

Harry doesn’t want to think that everything bad in his life goes back to the Dursleys, but that _is_ kind of the way it is. After hearing so much during his childhood about being a burden on his relatives, Harry was immensely relieved to discover he had gold in the wizarding world. He would pay his own way. He had enough to buy sweets when he wanted and all the things he needed for school. If something was so expensive that he couldn’t buy it himself, then he just didn’t buy it.

Knowing that he has rich people who actually want to buy gifts for him is…

Not something he’s had before.

Harry gives one final tug on the sleeve of the blue robes and steps out. He really likes the color, the dark shimmering blue of the Mediterranean that he and Blaise have visited a few times now, but he isn’t sure about how good it looks on _him_.

“Look at that, Blaise!”

Harry actually jumps when Mrs. Zabini stands up and says that. Her eyes are just so full of _approval_ that it’s stunning. Harry finds himself almost freezing in place as Mrs. Zabini comes over to nod and inspect him and touch the material of the sleeve and exclaim.

He looks at Blaise.

Blaise is smiling, like his mother, but there’s an edge to his smile that isn’t there with hers. He comes over when Mrs. Zabini declares that they will definitely be taking the robes and bends down to whisper in Harry’s ear, “I’m picturing tugging those robes right off you.”

Harry starts and blushes, Blaise smiles more broadly, and Mrs. Zabini says, “Ah, Harry. One smile from my son is worth all the robes I could purchase for you.”

Harry relaxes. He does believe them, the way that he never really believed the Dursleys when he was younger than they used to promise him gifts as long as he “behaved.” He does pull out his piece of parchment to write down, “ _Even if I wanted you to buy the whole shop_?”

“Let’s say, all the robes that would look equally good on you.”

*

“We are making progress.”

Harry nods to Mrs. Zabini and then winces as his headache picks up. It feels as though something with claws is trying to climb out of his skull right around his eyesockets. He picks up his cooled mango juice and takes a long sip.

“The Horcrux is coming loose.” Mrs. Zabini no longer sweats as much as she did the first few Legilimency sessions, but Harry still sees her cast a Cooling Charm on herself as she shifts back into her seat. Then she reaches for her own mango juice and drains most of the glass. “You don’t feel any results beyond the headaches and pain during the sessions, do you?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Such a liar,” Blaise says. He lounges on a stone bench behind Harry, his usual seat now, and leans over to tap Harry on the knee. “I know that you have headaches outside the sessions. I see the way you rub that scar when we’re playing Exploding Snap.”

Harry’s words of protest die on his tongue. It’s not like he could speak them in an understandable way, anyway.

“Is that true, Harry?” Mrs. Zabini looks terribly sad.

Harry stares at the far wall of the gardens, where grape vines wrap around a small stone arch, and hisses, “ _I don’t want you to worry about me._ ” Then he ends up writing it down, because Blaise isn’t as tolerant of Hermione—who would put up with utterances she couldn’t understand if she felt she could read Harry’s face—and showing it to them.

“We worry far more when you don’t tell us the truth,” Blaise says quietly. He squeezes Harry’s shoulder and reaches up to touch his cheek, once, as lightly as the sleeves of Harry’s new robes rest on his arms. “It makes us think that you’re concealing something catastrophic.”

“He’s right, Harry.” Mrs. Zabini leans forwards, and there’s no weariness in her eyes now; they’re blazing. “Please don’t ever think you need to flinch and hide from us. Please remember that, next to my son, you are the most important person in the world to me.”

Harry freezes. He was _not_ ready to hear that. He actually jumps to his feet. That was the way he processed some of the horrible news he got at Hogwarts: he would run away and be alone.

But Blaise’s arm falls across his shoulder, and he turns Harry around to stare into his eyes, and Harry shivers and ends up accepting Blaise’s embrace helplessly. Parseltongue kept people away at school, but when it doesn’t, Harry finds that he’s actually a _lot_ more vulnerable. He can’t use words to dazzle them and make them think nothing’s wrong.

“Please don’t try to hide from me,” Blaise murmurs into his ear.

And, well, what can Harry do with that declaration but accept it and treasure it?


	3. Chapter 3

“I saw the scar on his arm, Blaise. I know what that came from as much as you do.”

Blaise turns to face his mother. Harry is asleep upstairs, exhausted from the Legilimency session today. He’s exhausted by the sense that’s slowly settling on him, too, Blaise knows, that Dumbledore must have known about the Horcrux and might have planned to have him kill himself.

But that’s not what his mother wants to talk about now, so Blaise nods. “I know. There were rumors about what Slytherin’s monster really was, in my second year. I see now that they were true.”

“A _basilisk_. How did he survive a basilisk bite, Blaise?”

“I have no idea.” Blaise sits down heavily on the bench that stands in the cool shade of the veranda and looks out at the sloping roofs below him. The sea gleams in the distance, and Blaise longs to be beside it, sitting on the beach and watching the waves run in. “I thought Harry was telling me most things.”

“He does seem honest when we ask him to be.” Mother sits down next to him, looking nearly as exhausted. Blaise gives her an anxious look, but she only smiles a little and shakes her head. “It’s a migraine that will go away, dearest.”

“But he keeps all these secrets he just _never thinks to mention_.” Blaise swallows. “Mother, the Muggles he lived with abused him.”

Mother only closes her eyes and nods. “I saw that much in his memories, Blaise. We kept him away from them this summer. You think that he will try to go back to them when he returns to Britain?”

“He can’t.”

Blaise makes the declaration, and he knows as he makes it that he’s setting himself up for conflict with powerful enemies. Dumbledore and the people who follow Dumbledore want Harry to go back to that horrible place. Blaise doesn’t know their reasons, but he knows he could listen to them and they _wouldn’t matter._ Nothing matters next to the pain that Harry was forced to endure there.

And nothing matters next to the urgency of keeping Harry away from people who would do that to him—both the Muggles and the wizards who enabled the Muggles.

Mother is silent for a moment. Then she turns to face him and clasps his hand. Blaise looks down at their joined hands and remembers so well when there were only the two of them against the world, in his childhood, right after his father died and before Mother punished his murderers and inherited the wealth of the men she killed.

“I always said that I would support you and whoever you chose, Blaise. I mean that still. But we are going to have much more of a time with this than I thought when I believed you would fall in love with some sweet Italian boy and we might only face conflict based on the color of his skin.”

Blaise smiles, looking down at his mother’s fingers. She wears only a single ring, the mourning ring that she put on the night of his father’s funeral. A spun braid of white gold and platinum, its stone is a ruby that Blaise knows symbolizes eternal love.

Someday, he is going to set a ring with a stone like that on Harry’s finger. But _his_ beloved is going to be alive.

“I know, Mother. I love you.”

“And I you.”

*

Harry takes a careful breath as he looks at the letter lying on the table in front of him. It came this morning, delivered by a tawny owl that Mrs. Zabini checked over carefully for spells before allowing the bird to drop off the message.

The writing on the outside of the envelope is Sirius’s.

“Do you think he knew about the plan to get you to return to your relatives’?” Blaise asks casually from across the table.

 _I’ll never know if I don’t read it_ , Harry writes. But for all that, he doesn’t reach across his plate of perfect baked fish for the letter.

The crushing realization that at least one person he trusted _knew_ he was a Horcrux is settling deeper and deeper into his soul and bones with every passing day. What is he going to do if he finds out that Sirius knew? And lied to him about it? And was okay with Harry marching to his death, because Dumbledore said so?

Part of Harry protests violently that Sirius never would have let it go if he knew. But on the other hand, Harry doesn’t actually know Sirius that well. They never got to spend much time together. Sirius was a member of the Order of the Phoenix in the first war. He’s never actually _done_ anything about Harry having to go back to the Dursleys. Sirius trusts Dumbledore.

Just the fact that Harry doesn’t might be enough to drive a wedge between them.

“I’m here for you if he’s a liar.”

Harry glances up and nods at Blaise. “ _I know_ ,” he says, then writes it, and then he picks up the letter and manages to open it in spite of the way his hands tremble.

 _Dear Harry_ ,

_I don’t know why you ran away like that. Isn’t it enough to know that I wouldn’t flinch when I heard you hissing? You could come to Grimmauld Place and no one would run away from you. I don’t think even Ron flinches when he hears it now, does he?_

_I’m worried about you. It would be one thing if you ran away to stay with the Weasleys, but to do it with a Slytherin you just met and you’ve only been dating for a few months is something else. I don’t think that your Zabini cast a spell on you, since I know you can resist the Imperius Curse, but he must have told you_ something _about Dumbledore that isn’t true. The Headmaster would never hurt you._

_Please write back to me, at least. And please consider coming back to Britain. I can’t help you from so far away. I miss you._

_Love,_  
_Sirius._

Harry sighs and puts the letter down. It’s not any different than he expected, really. He _knows_ Sirius loves him, but Harry can’t trust him as long as he’s reporting to Dumbledore. And who knows how long he’s going to do that? Who knows what kinds of things he would tell Dumbledore if Harry was foolish enough to write back to him without some kind of filter?

“May I see?”

Just the fact that Blaise asks puts him leagues ahead of some of the competition. Harry nods and pushes the letter across the table to Blaise.

Blaise reads it in silence, and then glances at Harry for permission again before he gives it to his mother. Blaise holds Harry’s wrist tightly, but Mrs. Zabini swears aloud and drops the letter. “Such mealy-mouthed promises,” she murmurs. “I don’t think that your godfather knows where his ultimate loyalty should lie. And he distrusts Blaise because of his House? I had thought most adults, even in Britain, discarded such concerns once they graduated from Hogwarts.”

Harry thinks about trying to explain the whole complicated situation around Sirius, but even the thought makes him tired. He only writes down, _He spent a long time in Azkaban. I think that sort of broke his mind._

“Or froze his sense of time. Yes, that would make sense. Exposure to Dementors is of no use to anyone except those who want to avoid making the hard decisions.” Mrs. Zabini leans across the table. “You may write whatever you like back to him, Harry. But I’ll ask that you not use one of our owls. We’ll take you to a postal service that has anonymous birds. Too much chance that someone of Dumbledore’s caliber might be able to use magic to trace one of our owls back to us.”

Harry shudders. _That would be horrible,_ he writes.

“Yes. But it will not happen.” Mrs. Zabini exchanges a look with Blaise that Harry doesn’t understand. “And in the meantime, we will step up your Legilimency sessions. I would like to make sure that the Horcrux is gone completely before you fall under Dumbledore’s purview again.”

*

“I want to hear about the basilisk.”

Harry starts. He and Blaise have been lying in the garden for hours, charms on their skin to prevent it from burning, and simply soaking in the sunlight and the soft, rustling atmosphere around them. Harry loves the villa, the way that shaded places loom around sudden corners, and how many vines fill the garden, and the luscious smell of grapes, but what he might love most of all—besides the Zabinis—is the weather.

Harry turns on his side, somewhat disarranging the blanket that Blaise spread beneath him before he’d allow Harry to lie down. Harry tried to tell him in writing he was used to harder things than the soft dirt of the garden, but that only made Blaise angry, so Harry stopped. Now, he blinks.

“Wondering how I found out?” Blaise gestures at Harry’s arms, bare to the shoulder in the shirt that Harry’s wearing. “That’s a scar from a basilisk, Harry. We had an ancestor who faced one down, and left a detailed statue with the mark reproduced exactly. I want to know about it, and I want to know how you survived.”

Harry scowls at him.

Blaise tilts his body towards him without rising off his own blanket. His face is so soft and intense that Harry would glance away if he could, but he seems caught in place. He can do nothing but stare, and Blaise reaches up to brush Harry’s wild hair back behind his ear. He kisses Harry once before continuing.

“I want to know everything about you. I want to _have_ everything about you. I won’t be satisfied with less. I want to keep you. There’s not going to be any shadowed corner of your soul where you have to keep secrets from me.”

 _I might want secrets,_ Harry manages to write down, dazedly, on the scrap of parchment that Mrs. Zabini enchanted to follow him around. His words are jagged and rip through the paper because he’s trying to write on the dirt.

Blaise still manages to read them by adjusting the angle of his head a little. “Then you can have them. But you don’t have to keep things secret for fear of frightening me away, or any other reason.” He traces the shell of Harry’s ear with his fingers this time, and Harry shivers and presses his lower body into the blanket so that Blaise can’t see the result of his simple touches. “You’re mine. Everything about you, I accept. Every part of you, I want to know.”

 _I love you,_ Harry mouths, and watches Blaise’s dark eyes brighten.

“I love you, too. But I think you still owe me a story of how you survived a basilisk bite.”

It takes more than one sheet of parchment, and even more than one quill, when the one Harry has breaks because he’s pressing so hard. But the whole time, Blaise lies beside him, his arm draped over Harry’s shoulder, encouraging him with sharp angry hisses of breath and his whispers of, “The bastards.”

When Harry finishes, Blaise is silent, his head on Harry’s shoulder, his arms clasped tightly around him. Then he says, “We need to increase your lessons.”

Harry blinks. _What?_ He doesn’t get a chance to write it down before Blaise seems to sense what he’s thinking and shakes his head.

“Not lessons in Legilimency. But you could have died before I—before I even got to know you. I could have been here without you.” Blaise’s voice is thickening with emotion, the Italian accent that Harry doesn’t usually notice coming out in force. “I could have lived my life through without finding someone to love.”

Harry simply stares. He doesn’t believe that Blaise would ever spend his life alone. He’s too handsome, too witty, too _everything_.

“I’m going to train you in defensive magic. Spells that are more common in Italy, spells that your enemies would be less likely to know the counters to.” Blaise kisses his ear. “And we’re going to go to some of the shops and look for rarer books. Who knows, we might even find something on Parselmouths. There are books banned in Britain that are available here.”

 _I can’t read Italian,_ Harry manages to write, while his brain spins.

“Don’t worry. I’ll translate for you.”

Blaise manages to make even that sound like a dirty promise. Harry shivers and leans in for a kiss, and Blaise is more than happy to oblige.

*

“Now I have the end of it.”

Harry mops literal sweat from his brow and leans back from Mrs. Zabini. They’re at the small table in the garden, and Blaise has mango juice and potions waiting for them as usual. Harry swallows the Restorative Draught and waits for the world to stop spinning before he writes down, _What do you mean?_

“Picture the Horcrux as like a rope, extending through your head and down the back of your mind into the distance, reaching towards Voldemort.” Mrs. Zabini takes a long gulp of mango juice, and Harry imitates her once the taste of the potion is no longer making his mouth sting. “It doesn’t look at all the way you might expect a living Horcrux to look. I am convinced that is one reason Voldemort does not know what it is. He probably thinks it a connection forged by Dark Arts. He knew it existed, enough to tie the Parseltongue curse to it, but not to identify it.”

Harry shivers. _Thank God for that,_ he writes.

Mrs. Zabini nods, while Blaise leans more heavily on Harry, as if he wants to shove him off the bench. “But I have one end of the rope, and I have maintained my grip on it despite its attempts to shake me off when I am reaching towards it with Legilimency. Now we can pull.”

_How are we going to do that?_

“I’m so glad that you asked.” Mrs. Zabini’s smile is grim and sad, but Harry finds that he doesn’t mind, not if they’re finally on the verge of getting rid of this terrible curse. “We are going to make sure that you have a comfortable place to lie, rather like a hospital room in our villa. Then we are going to pull on the rope, and keep pulling until it unravels.”

“But you know what usually destroys Horcruxes, Mother.” Blaise has gone still. “Basilisk venom and Fiendfyre. We’re not going to subject Harry to _either_ of those.”

“No,” Mrs. Zabini says calmly, which fills Harry with relief for a stress he didn’t even realize he was experiencing. “But this Horcrux is unusual not only in the way it is bound to a living being, but also in its _shape_. I do not think that Voldemort crafted it that way on purpose. He may even have distorted its shape further with the Parseltongue curse.”

Blaise’s eyes widen. “Which means it’s weakened. And easier to destroy.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Zabini pats Harry’s shoulder, and then reaches up and ruffles his hair. It’s a gesture that’s finally stopped bringing stupid tears to his eyes, which never should have been there in the first place, because it’s just a _gesture_. “Would you be able to begin the removal soon, Harry? It will require you to be rested, not hungry, and able to nearly fall asleep in my presence.”

 _I trust you that much now,_ Harry writes.

Mrs. Zabini stares him in the eye, although Harry is exhausted enough that he can’t tell if she’s touching his mind with Legilimency or not. Then she exchanges a glance with Blaise. “No,” she says slowly. “Not right now. I think that we’ll wait a few days. That way, we can make sure that you sleep well if you have a bad night tonight, and we can fill you as full of food as possible.”

“And we can have a few days together,” Blaise says, while his arm seems to get heavier on Harry’s shoulder than ever.

Harry glances at him. _But we have days together all the time?_ He wants to say it, but he doesn’t want to write it, because then Mrs. Zabini would see it, and he doesn’t—he just feels weird about her seeing it.

Mrs. Zabini gets up and moves a few steps away from the table and turns her back, though. So Harry writes down the question and twists the parchment around for Blaise to see.

Blaise murmurs to him, “We have another villa near the coast that Mother doesn’t visit often because it reminds her too much of Father. We can go there, the two of us, for the days before the removal. We can sleep as much as we like, eat as much as we like, and swim in the ocean. And—do those things that I’m too shy to do much of with Mother in the same house.”

Harry feels his eyes widen and his heart begin to pound with excitement. _Oh. Oh. Oh._ Yes, he wants that. He’s wanted that for a while. But Blaise was holding back, and the only thing Harry could think of was that he wanted to wait until the Horcrux was gone.

He didn’t dare _ask_ , in case the answer was something else and a lot more disappointing. But now that he knows what the problem is—

He reaches out and holds Blaise’s wrist hard, the way Blaise does so often to him. He does it with his left hand, so he can keep his right hand free to scribble down, _I’d love to do that. I’d love to go away with you._

“It’s something else you never thought you’d get to do, isn’t it.”

Blaise’s voice is grieved. Harry kisses the middle of his forehead, the same place that the lightning bolt scar would be if Blaise had one, and just shakes his own head. He doesn’t want sadness right now. He leans his head on Blaise’s shoulder so both of them can see the parchment at once as he writes, _I know, but you keep expanding my vision of what’s possible._

Blaise, finally, smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the story, although I'll probably write a sequel at some point.

Harry wanders through the villa that Blaise brought him to, staring. It’s smaller than the one Mrs. Zabini lives in, but as if _that_ matters. It’s filled with huge and shining windows, chairs that look as if Harry would fall asleep if he sat in them, a couch that actually wraps all the way around the veranda, a small garden planted exclusively with silver flowers, and a dueling room that gleams with white marble and gold.

“It’s a beautiful place, right?”

Blaise sounds a little uncertain. Harry turns around, smiling, and holds out his hand. Blaise comes up and clasps it, kissing the back of it, while Harry nods emphatically.

He wishes that he could say what he wants to in English, but he settles for scribbling down, _I can’t believe how beautiful._

Blaise abruptly smiles in a way that unsettles Harry a little, and leads him upstairs. Harry follows him, wondering. He saw a bedroom earlier that he assumed would be his, but now he realizes it didn’t have his trunk in it. He didn’t see any of the other rooms on the first floor.

Then Blaise opens a door that has gleaming cherry wood panels, and Harry gasps at the size of the bedroom that lies beyond. It has multiple doors leading off it, one to a balcony, and it sparkles and shimmers with some of the same shades of blue that are on the robes Mrs. Zabini bought for Harry. There’s one wall that is an actual _waterfall_ tumbling slowly down in wavering streams, falling into a pool at the bottom that then channels the water back up the sides with magic.

Harry turns to Blaise, his mouth open. Blaise answers the question before he can ask it. “This was my parents’ bedroom when my father was alive. My mother is giving the whole thing to us. You won’t have to sleep in that small bedroom.”

Harry manages to look wondering enough that Blaise guesses his question without him having to ask it. “I only made you think that you would be sleeping in the small bedroom because I wanted to see your face when you walked in here.”

Harry shakes his head, but he knows he’s smiling. He flings his arms around Blaise and kisses him. Blaise promptly shoves him back into the wall, his hands and his mouth desperate. Harry blinks, but kisses him harder.

When Blaise’s hands are sliding under his shirt and Harry’s head is whirling with dizziness, Blaise pulls back to breathe, “Will you let me?”

Harry nods. Honestly, he was ready for Blaise to go further weeks ago, but Blaise really _is_ shy when his mother is in the same house.

 _If she knows what we’re doing now, then I can be just as shy,_ Harry thinks, and feels his face heat up to the point that he almost loses interest. But then Blaise pulls his own shirt off, and Harry’s whole body slams to a halt.

Blaise _shines_. His dark skin looks even softer and brighter than Harry knows it really is in the muffled light of the bedroom. And he’s looking at Harry with a self-satisfied curve of his lips that’s immensely attractive as he lays his shirt down on a chair.

“You want me,” Blaise says.

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry hisses, and doesn’t feel embarrassed about the Parseltongue word when he sees how Blaise’s eyes light up even more. He reaches out and traces one finger around Blaise’s right nipple. Blaise hisses out a (wordless) complaint of his own while his nipple pebbles gently under Harry’s touch.

“Your turn.”

Harry flushes even more deeply while he takes his glasses and then his shirt off. He wonders what Blaise will think of him. Not only is Harry skinnier than Blaise and just not as beautiful, he has a bunch of scars.

But Blaise takes a harsh breath, and Harry relaxes a little. That doesn’t sound like someone who is disgusted by what he sees.

“Sweet Merlin, Harry.” Blaise eases over to him, as if scared that he’ll run. His hands trace the scars, Harry’s few muscles, the line of hair that trails down beneath his trousers. As much as Harry can make out the expression on his face when he looks at him without his glasses, Blaise is almost _awed_. “I never realized that you’d survived so much.”

“ _That’s a good way to think of it,_ ” Harry says, and then wants to flinch and hide his face when he realizes that he’s still speaking in Parseltongue. Because of course he is. Because of course that curse hasn’t changed, and he can’t escape from it even in this private moment with Blaise.

“Please don’t duck your head,” Blaise says softly, and lifts his chin with three fingers. “I can’t wait until you can speak in English again, but I fell in love with you when you were silent, and this is still you.” And he kisses Harry before Harry can think of some way to slink off and get rid of the embarrassment.

After that, it’s just _hot,_ the way that Blaise leans against him, trapping him near the wall, and won’t take his hands from Harry’s scars, and has his mouth fastened over Harry’s and his tongue thrusting. And the bed beneath them when they finally get there is hot, too, no matter the waterfall on the wall next to them.

Blaise’s hands are roving, now, dipping down and grasping Harry. Harry’s cry feels like something ripped out of him, the rippling noise up his throat like something someone else made. But Blaise’s mouth is still kissing him and Blaise’s arms are still holding him, and Blaise keeps him grounded.

Then Harry reaches down, deciding he can be bold, too, and grasps Blaise’s cock.

Blaise bucks and grunts, but Harry makes him lean back enough that they can get his trousers off, and then Harry’s. Blaise is still wearing pants, which makes Harry roll his eyes as he drags them away.

“Ouch, that hurt when they snapped against me, Harry!”

Harry wouldn’t have been able to answer even if he still spoke English. He’s staring at Blaise’s erection, dark and flushed, curving straight up in a way that makes Harry wonder what it would be like to have it in his mouth, in his arse—

Well, right now he’s going to have it in his fingers. He reaches out and gives Blaise a rough stroke, and Blaise’s mouth drops open and his hips snap up.

“Let me touch you, too,” Blaise whispers. Harry nods, but he can’t look down as Blaise frees his cock. It always looks so weird to him, even the times that he’s wanked in the shower or just washed himself there.

Blaise makes a soft sound that’s all but ripped out of him the way Harry’s cry was, though, so he must like it. Reassured, Harry strokes Blaise from the root to the tip, and Blaise’s next sound is a lot louder. He rolls on top of Harry, and Harry parts his thighs and welcomes him there, so their cocks and not just their hands can touch each other.

It’s hot and wet and sliding, and Harry doesn’t think that he’s ever felt this good in his _life_. Blaise’s eyes are right there staring into his, his hand is going up and down on the part of Harry’s shaft he can still reach, he’s making little thrusts, sweat is getting trapped between them, the air is soft with the hissing of the waterfall around them, Harry opens his mouth and thrusts his tongue out and Blaise’s tongue is there—

He comes in a shivering rush of pleasure, so good and consuming and happy and _shared_. Blaise is behind him a few seconds later, muffling his latest growl-noise in Harry’s neck as he bows his head.

“That was wonderful,” Blaise says a few seconds or minutes or hours later. His free hand is languidly combing through Harry’s hair. His other hand is still trapped between them, and Harry doesn’t want to think about how he’s soaked it.

But Blaise doesn’t mind. He stands up with a lazy smile, twisting a little to the side and flexing so that Harry can look at his legs, and then turns around and goes to one of the doors on the far side of the room. Harry shuts his eyes and drifts. Now that he’s free to concentrate on something other than the best moment of his _life_ , he finds the waterfall’s soft hissing like a lullaby. He could probably fall asleep listening to it.

“Budge up.”

Harry opens one lazy eye. Blaise has come back, and he’s washed himself off. He has a wet cloth he does the same to Harry with, although Harry jumps and yelps at first because the water is too cold.

“Sorry,” Blaise whispers, and casts a Warming Charm on the cloth. Harry lies back with more pleasure as he’s wiped down, and looks up into Blaise’s eyes.

“I love you,” Blaise murmurs.

Harry still can’t say it, but he can reach out and curl his fingers around Blaise’s and squeeze hard, and sometimes, that’s just as good.

*

The days they spend at the seaside villa are so good that Harry cherishes them later, only taking them out to look at sometimes, like a jewel that has to be wrapped up in case its luster dulls with too much looking. He and Blaise have sex, and watch the silver flowers blooming in the garden.

They go down to the beach, the sands of it clear and silvery, and an inspiration for the flowers in the garden, Blaise tells him. His mother cast a spell at his father that failed and for some reason colored the sand and pebbles this way. Blaise and Harry lie side by side on the softer parts of the beach and watch the sunset blooming across the water.

Harry learns to swim far more in those few days than he ever has, and without gillyweed, even. Blaise holds him up as they paddle through the water, and Harry trusts him. He knows that Blaise will never drop him or upend him or let him float away.

The kiss of the water against his skin is warm, but not as warm as Blaise’s kiss.

Blaise teaches him offensive spells that, even when they’re making the air crackle or the wooden shields that for some reason the villa is full of crack apart, seem as gentle as the rest of their time there. And he takes every excuse he can to stand behind Harry and wrap his hands around Harry’s on the wand and guide his movements. If he spends some of that time sniffing Harry’s neck instead, Harry isn’t one to blame him.

Every night, they fall asleep in the large bedroom to the murmuring of the water on the wall and outside the windows.

The only sour note marring those green and blue days is another letter from Sirius. Harry picks it up and stares half-helplessly at it. He honestly has no idea what to do with it.

“What was in the one you wrote back to him the first time?” Blaise is lounging on the beach, impossibly perfect as always with the sun and the breeze playing over his dark skin. Harry wants to lean over and lick him, but he refrains.

Harry tears open the envelope and uses it to write on without looking at the letter right now. _I said that I was somewhere safe and to please not listen when Dumbledore or other people told him I wasn’t. I said you were the person I wanted to be with. That was about it._

Blaise sits up to read that, and then nods. “That makes sense, because you aren’t sure what other secrets he might betray.” He looks deeply into Harry’s eyes and lifts a hand to push the hair away from his fringe. “Listen. Whatever you want to say, that’s all right. I’m not going to blame you if you want to tell him more specifics.”

 _But I really don’t,_ Harry writes down, and then finally picks up the letter and turns it around.

 _I want you to come home,_ the letter begins, and Harry’s heart softens, but only until he gets to the next line.

_If that means listening to Dumbledore, then that’s what you have to do, Harry. Dumbledore may have made some mistakes this year, but he’ll protect you with everything he has. Please don’t say that your Zabini taught you to mistrust him. Of course he would mistrust Dumbledore! He probably mistrusts him on purpose, because he’s a Slytherin._

There is no signature this time, but Sirius probably figured out that he wouldn’t need one.

Harry closes his eyes and massages his forehead tiredly. His scar hasn’t ached in the last few days, but it seems ready to start. He looks helplessly at Blaise, who waits for his nod before he picks up his letter and reads it.

“I think this is the sort of conflict that you’re not going to be able to address until you’re back with him in person,” Blaise finally says. “It’s probably not hopeless, but he wants you to come back, and you’re not going back.”

Harry starts to answer, then writes down, _Would you even let me go back?_

“No.” Blaise is giving him a gentle smile that nevertheless has its edge. It reminds Harry of how Blaise smiled at him right after Umbridge died. “I told you how I felt about the basilisk biting you and almost destroying my chance to meet you. The same thing applies here. Either Dumbledore would get hold of you and convince you to die for that bloody Horcrux, or you would end up depressed and longing for me. I say that we skip some steps and just keep you here.”

Harry leans his head on Blaise’s shoulder. Then he nods. _I’m not going to worry about it until after we get the Horcrux out, then,_ he writes on the last portion of clear paper on the back of the envelope.

Blaise kisses his hair. “That’s what I hoped you would say.”

*

“Focus on my voice, Harry.”

Harry lies back on the pillows that Mrs. Zabini and Blaise arranged in the large drawing room of the villa, and breathes slowly in and out. He would have preferred to do this outside, but Mrs. Zabini says that they can’t have any distractions. Harry has to hear her voice and nothing else.

“I am going to slip into your mind. But this time, I am going to take the end of the Horcrux that extends like a rope from your mind to Voldemort’s and I am going to _pull_. Do you understand? We will pull until the Horcrux comes free.”

It sounds terrifying and painful. But then again, the curse has already brought its share of terror and pain into Harry’s life. He nods.

“Good. Now focus on my voice. Hear me speaking as I slip into your mind, but don’t focus on the way that I am grasping hold of the Horcrux. Hear my voice. Hear it holding you to the present, not letting you slip away into the distance…”

In fact, Harry can’t concentrate on Mrs. Zabini’s voice for long. It’s Blaise’s hand encircling his wrist that keeps him grounded as he feels her grasp the end of the Horcrux, and everything around him goes deep and dim and muffled. His heartbeat seems to pound ten times more slowly. He is in blackness. He floats away.

But then there is _pain_.

Harry screams. He knows it. Mrs. Zabini’s voice is murmuring to him, but Harry can’t hear her words. He writhes on the pillows, and the black and yellow agony tears the inside of his head apart. Hot needles sink into his stomach and rend his limbs from each other. He opens his mouth and vomits anguish. He tries to roll onto his side, but the nest of pillows holds him still.

And Blaise’s hand. Harry can feel Blaise’s hand. He clings to that with barely restrained violence.

He will come back for Blaise.

The pain shreds his mind. Harry can see snatches of memory drifting past: the cupboard at the Dursleys’, the primary school roof that he once accidentally Apparated to, Sirius bending over him and grinning, the Gryffindor common room, the villa by the sea.

_If you die during this, you’ll never be in the villa with Blaise again._

Harry channels all the fierce strength of his desire to live into those memories. He _wants_ to live, he _wants_ to keep existing, because if he dies, there’s no more Blaise and no more memories they could make in the future.

Mrs. Zabini says something. Blaise responds in a low, tense voice. Harry turns his head towards him.

“Yes, Blaise, keep speaking to him.”

Harry hears that much before she pulls again, unraveling something from his soul, and he screams again. Blaise bends over him, and speaks softly in Italian. He must know that Harry can’t make out the words, and so speaking in English isn’t important. He keeps his hand running up and down Harry’s shoulder, and Harry can picture his fingers perfectly, everything from his thumbnail to the exact shade of his skin to the wrinkles in his knuckles.

Harry is going to come back to him. He is not going to be defeated by this.

He hates the Horcrux—

But that’s the wrong move, because the Horcrux turns on him gleefully and clings to him, feeding on the hatred. Harry tries to think of battling Voldemort, killing the basilisk and defending the Philosopher’s Stone from Quirrell, but that doesn’t work. The fight is destroying him, and the Horcrux wants to help. It wants to possess his body and make it kill his friends.

It wants to laugh in Blaise’s face.

 _No_! Harry roars out, and Blaise’s voice falters for a second as if he screamed it aloud. But Harry knows the trick of it, now. He lifts the memory of love against the Horcrux.

The memories of his parents in the Mirror of Erised. Sitting next to Ron and Hermione in the Gryffindor common room and feeling ridiculously satisfied to have such great friends. Believing, for one shining moment, that he might get to live with Sirius.

And Blaise. Blaise making love with him, holding his wrist, smiling at him sweetly and asking why he thought he’d be allowed to go back to Britain, telling him that he can put off answering stupid letters, being furious on his behalf at the notion that he might have to die to destroy the Horcrux.

The clinging tendrils fall away from him. Harry thinks he hears something sob, and laughs at it. _If you can’t bear love, the greatest thing in the world, what are you, anyway?_

And _that’s_ right, too. The burning sun of his love turns on the Horcrux and withers it to ash like the sun of Italy warming the waves. Harry tears free with a gasp and a shriek, and at the same moment, hears Mrs. Zabini shouting something in Italian. Harry doesn’t know what it is, only that it sounds urgent, but he’s fallen back among his nest of pillows and barely has the strength to open his eyes.

There’s a harsh sizzling sound that he does, in fact, open them for.

Mrs. Zabini is standing with something clutched in her hand. Harry can only describe it as looking like a bolt of rotten lightning. She flings it from her with a small shudder and dusts her hands off, shaking her head.

Harry watches apprehensively as it flies, but it breaks apart long before it hits the wall of the villa and disappears into less than ash. Harry discovers that he is able to breathe again.

“There,” Mrs. Zabini says with deep satisfaction, and manages to kneel among the pillows instead of fall. Her headscarf is dangling off her ear; she rearranges it and reaches over to Harry. “The Horcrux is gone, my dear. Can you say something?”

Harry turns to look at Blaise, who is sweating and shivering the way his mother usually does after one of their Legilimency sessions. Harry reaches towards him, and Blaise immediately grasps his wrist in the familiar way he has, not taking his eyes from Harry.

And Harry draws a deep breath, and speaks in English for the first time in thirteen months.

He says, “Blaise.”

*

Blaise hears the sound of the word, and it’s as if some chain has fallen away from his heart. And _he_ falls.

Headlong, furiously, down and down and down. Into love deeper and more profound than he would ever have believed could exist.

He knows now how Mother felt about Father. He knows now why she became a murderer, making sure to destroy the people who profited from his death, when she lost him.

He leans down and kisses Harry fiercely, feeling the hands that rise up and curl around his neck, and not despising the tears that he can taste underneath his lips.

He answers, “Harry.”

**The End.**


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